II     IMIII  II  Nil  III  I  II 


ONAHAN 


(Appreciation 

• 

Richard  Le  Gallienne 


LIBRARY 

UNTVERSr  SFORNIA 

DAVIS 


• 


MICHAEL    MONAHAN 


MICHAEL  MONAHAN 

<An  (Appreciation 

by 
Richard  Le  Gallienne 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THIS  APPRECIATION  IS  MADE  UP 
OF  TWO  SEPARATE  REVIEWS 
WHICH  APPEARED  ORIGINALLY 
IN  THE  NEW  YORK  Times  LIT- 
ERARY SUPPLEMENT. 


******%«*:*«£  %*****%***** 


OOKS,  yes,  let  us  have  talk 
about  books,  but  well  flav- 
ored with  the  tabasco  sauce 
of  human  interest  *  *  *  . 
Say  what  we  will,  we  love  or 
hate  the  man  behind  the  book:  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  impersonality  in  true 
literature."  So  Mr.  Michael  Monahan 
provides  me  with  a  motto  with  which  to 
start  out  these  "Adventures  in  Life  and 
Letters,"  to  borrow  a  phrase  which  he 
in  turn  has  adapted  from  that  prince  of 
causeurs,  Anatole  France.  "Criticism," 
ran  the  now  proverbial  dictum,  "is  the 
adventures  of  the  critic's  soul  among 
masterpieces."  The  proverb  is  some- 
what musty  nowadays,  but  twenty-odd 
years  ago,  as  one's  eye  first  fell  upon  it 
in  Le  Temps,  or  in  the  reprinted  volumes 
of  La  Vie  Litteraire,  it  had  the  freshness 


of  a  new  critical  gospel,  and  has  since 
inspired  many  a  good  critic  with  the 
courage  to  express  his  own  opinions,  in 
natural  human  fashion,  rather  than  with 
the  ex  cathedra  solemnity  of  an  academic 
authority.  Wilde's  famous  essay  on  crit- 
icism came  out  of  it,  and  many  other 
"Adventures  in  Criticism,"  besides  Sir 
Quiller  Couch's  have  started  out  with  it 
for  banner.  Criticism  as  a  form  of  auto- 
biography! Why  not?  "I  propose  to 
speak  of  myself  a  propos  Moliere,  Shake- 
speare, Racine."  That  is  really  what 
every  critic  does,  though  he  may  veil 
himself  in  Sinaitic  thunder  clouds,  and 
dart  down  shafts  of  anonymous  light- 
ning. 

I  am  glad  to  find  that  a  love  for 
Charles  Lamb — "Carolus  Agnus,"  as  he 
quaintly  calls  him — is  one  of  the  many 
tastes  I  share  in  common  with  "the  man 
behind  the  book,"  whose  warm  humanity, 
as  revealed  to  us  now  through  some 
dozen  confidential  years  of  THE  PAPY- 


RUS,  has  already  won  for  himself  a  place 
of  similar  endearment  in  our  hearts  as 
his  whom  he  confesses  to  loving  no 
less  "for  his  late  suppers,  his  too  many 
pipes,  his  clinging  to  ale  and  gin,"  than 
for  the  essays  and  the  letters.  "Saint 
Charles,"  as  we  have  all  called  him  since 
Thackeray — probably  because  he  was 
such  a  gentle-hearted  sinner.  Perhaps 
some  days  we  shall  be  saying  "Saint 
Michael,"  for  a  similar  reason.  At  all 
events,  St.  Michael  Monahan  has  to-day 
a  distinction  all  of  his  own,  a  chimney- 
corner  all  to  himself,  by  virtue  of  his 
possessing  that  personal  charm  of  letter- 
ed bonhomie,  which  seems  almost  lost  to 
literature,  as  at  present  practised.  In  an 
age  of  would-be  literary  dandies  and  su- 
perior persons,  one  is  fathomlessly  grate- 
ful for  his  gift  of  writing  like  a  real  hu- 
man being,  for  his  homely  preferences, 
for  his  touch  of  old-world  scholarship, 
for  his  quoting  Horace,  for  his  occasion- 
al tavern  or  "coffeehouse"  manner,  his 


air  of  telling  us  everything,  his  Rabel- 
aisian tang,  his  gossipy  chuckle,  his  ready 
tear,  his  quips,  his  snatches  of  song — 
and,  above  all,  for  that  gift  which  gath- 
ers up  all  these  and  many  other  engag- 
ing characteristics,  the  gift  of  a  natural 
style.  He  does  not,  thank  Heaven,  write 
English  as  if  it  were  a  dead  language, 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  does  he  write  it 
like  an  advertising  man.  To  write  like 
a  human  being!  If  you  look  around 
what  used  to  be  called  the  republic  of  let- 
ters, you  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  lit- 
tle writing  is  being  done  in  that  way. 
Everywhere  the  imitation  "style,"  the 
pose  point  of  view,  the  smart,  cynical, 
sophisticated  attitude.  Yet  never  have 
"We  felt  life's  tide,  the  sweep  and  surge 

of  it. 
And   craved    a   living  voice,   a   natural 

tone/ 
more  than  at  this  moment. 

Mr.   Monahan  has  a  gift  of  literary 
humanity,  a  geniality  of  nature,  a  talent 

6 


for  companionship,  a  ripe  and  reassuring 
point  of  view,  a  charm  of  wise  and  witty 
and  tender  utterance,  and  generally  a 
broad-shouldered,  warm  and  deep-heart- 
ed way  with  him,  for  which  (outside 
himself,  at  the  moment)  we  have  to  look 
to  those  older  writers,  novelists  and  es- 
sayists, who  still  preserve  for  us  an  ever 
present  refuge  from  the  smartness  and 
cynicism  of  the  day. 

Much  converse  with  such,  and  much 
varied  experience  of  life,  lived  generous- 
ly and  simple-heartedly,  have  made  of 
Mr.  Monahan  "a  full  man;"  and,  while 
these  "adventures"  of  his  prove  that  he 
is  by  no  means  unacquainted  or  unsym- 
pathetic with  "those  evidences  of  genius 
which  these  present  times  afford,"  to 
quote  one  of  his  favorite  authors — Mau- 
passant, Turgenev,  Wilde,  George 
Moore,  and  so  forth  (indeed  he  was,  by 
sundry  excellent  translations,  one  of  the 
earliest  introducers  of  Maupassant  to  the 
American  public) — yet  his  favorite  lit- 


erary  pabulum  is  found  in  the  beef  and 
brawn  and  the  more  wholesome  delicacies 
of  the  time- weathered  masters,  Balzac, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  Lamb,  Poe,  Vol- 
taire, Cellini,  Horace,  Heine,  Villon; 
these  and  such  like  are  the  men  for  him. 
It  is  in  their  company  that  he  prefers  to 
seek  his  adventures,  as  it  is  in  the  home- 
lier, broadcast  aspects  and  happenings  of 
life  that  he  finds  his  satisfactions  and 
"the  eternal  meanings." 

To  the  recording  of  these  various  "ad- 
ventures" Mr.  Monahan  brings,  as  I  have 
said,  a  style  of  uncommon  naturalness 
and  personal  charm.  A  style  that  is  at 
once  natural  and  lettered,  easy  and  yet 
distinguished,  is  almost  an  unknown  com- 
modity at  the  present  moment.  Our  es- 
sayists seem  to  suffer  from  a  positive 
dread  of  being  natural.  They  seem  to 
aim  at  being  wearily  well-bred,  and  a  la 
mode.  If  they  have  any  natural  selves, 
they  are  at  great  pains  to  conceal  the 
fact,  and  prefer  to  pose  as  blase  and 


superior  persons.  They  are  either  this, 
or  truculent  pamphleteers,  or  superfine 
"impressionists."  They  have  no  bon- 
homie, they  never  unbend,  never  laugh, 
never,  of  course,  shed  a  tear.  To  read 
them,  one  would  never  realize  that  men 
still  rejoiced  in  beef  and  beer  and  pipes 
and  tobacco,  loved  their  mothers  and 
wives,  begat  babies,  engaged  in  warm 
and  friendly  talk,  indulged  in  kindly 
nonsense,  pursued  love  or  feared  death. 
They  prefer  unkindly  wit  to  genial  hu- 
mor, cruel  skill  and  power  to  generous 
strength;  and  pity  and  pathos  and  ten- 
derness seem  to  them  to  smack  of  the 
unfashionable  and  the  domestic. 

As  a  contrast  to  these  supercilious  ex- 
quisites of  imitation  "style,"  Mr.  Mona- 
han  is  a  boon  and  a  blessing.  To  open 
his  pages  is  to  breathe  the  air  of  a  more 
spacious  and  friendly  era,  an  era  when 
culture  and  good-fellowship  still  walked 
arm  in  arm,  took  their  glass  together  in 
some  snug  and  lettered  tavern,  and  were 


even  not  above  joining  in  the  chorus  at 
some  Thackerayan  "cave  of  harmony/ 
It  is  as  though  we  had  dropped  in  to 
supper  and  gin  and  water  at  Charles 
Lamb's,  or  were  making  a  learned  night 
of  it  with  the  bookish  roysterers  of  the 
"Nodes  Ambrosianae"  Nodes  Mona- 
hanae!  It  is  not  saying  too  much  for 
our  Michael,  and  grateful  we  are  to  be 
able  to  say  it,  that  he  most  successfully 
revives  that  ambrosian  tradition  of  what 
one  might  call  the  Bookish  Bacchus.  The 
modern  tavern  has,  alas!  lost  those  gra- 
cious associations.  Things  are  done  dif- 
ferently at  the  Mermaid  nowadays,  and 
Dr.  Johnson's  chair  at  the  Cheshire 
Cheese  belongs  no  less  to  a  past  age  than 
Cleopatra's  Needle.  It  is  our  loss.  Let- 
ters were  more  truly  litterae  humaniores 
when  associated  with  the  interchange  of 
good  talk,  the  passage  of  the  humanizing 
bottle,  and  the  meditative  cloud  of  the 
tranquilizing  clay. 

This  atmosphere,  however,  is  most  nat- 

10 


urally  re-created  for  himself  and  his 
reader  in  Mr.  Monahan's  volume,  in 
which  literary  criticisms,  personal  confi- 
dences, meditations,  impressions,  fan- 
tasies, foot-notes  of  history,  fly-leaves  of 
human  story,  fables  and  apothegms,  are 
artfully  arranged  together,  with  here  and 
there  a  ballad,  or  stave,  or  a  sprig  of  grav- 
er, tenderer  verse,  decorating  the  prose 
with  a  posy  of  italics,  to  make  one  of 
those  literary  medleys,  "gallimaufries," 
which,  when  made  by  one  naturally  born 
to  the  method,  are  of  all  books  the  most 
companionable.  It  belongs  to  this  meth- 
od that  a  man  should  have  been  born 
to  write  naturally  and  inevitably  about 
himself,  to  assume  that  we  are  as  in- 
terested in  listening  to  his  confidences  as 
he  in  making  them.  This,  too,  is  well- 
nigh  a  lost  art,  but  Mr.  Monahan  is  one 
of  its  few  surviving  practitioners,  and 
he  avoids  its  pitfalls  with  instinctive  tact. 
Whether  he  is  telling  us  about  his  boy- 
hood, drawing  a  picture  of  an  old  school- 

II 


master,  confiding  his  love  affairs,  or  his 
literary  ambitions,  his  lost  dreams,  or  his 
eternal  verities,  personal  habits,  prefer- 
ences, or  faiths,  we  never  find  it  other- 
wise than  natural  that  he  should  be  thus 
taking  us  into  his  confidence. 

We  listen  to  him  as  simply  as  we 
would  to  Benjamin  Franklin  or  "Elia." 
He  is  one  of  those  natural  autobiogra- 
phers,  of  whom  it  never  occurs  to  us  to 
ask  if  they  are  anybody  in  particular, 
that  they  should  thus  tell  us  about  them- 
selves. They  are  entertaining,  human 
beings,  with  a  gift  of  making  anything 
they  touch  upon,  particularly  themselves 
and  their  own  histories,  good  listening 
matter;  and  so  we  are  only  too  glad  to 
listen. 

And  with  all  this  familiar,  chimney- 
corner  gossip,  Mr.  Monahan  combines 
many  other  literary  gifts  rarely  found 
together.  If  you  would  know  how  mov- 
ing he  can  make  a  simple  human  story, 
read  "Mary ,"  or  try  examples  of  his  gift 

12 


for  grim  and  satiric  fantasy  and  fable, 
read  "The  Other  Face"  and  'The  Lost 
God ;"  or  admire  his  skill  at  portrait  mak- 
ing, read  "Brother  Elias"  or  "Old  Book 
Men."  His  sound  and  illuminative  criti- 
cal gift  is  in  evidence  all  through  his 
volume,  and  through  it  all,  too,  beats  the 
warm  and  tender  heart  of  a  true  poet.  It 
is  the  presence  of  that  poet  everywhere 
between  the  lines,  not  merely  in  the  ad- 
mirable, spirited,  and  poignant  verses 
themselves,  that  is  the  inspiring,  unify- 
ing soul  of  all  these  wise  and  witty  and 
endearingly  human  "Adventures." 


THE  VAN 

R.  MONAHAN'S  "VAN"  is 
the  moving  van,  and  the  first 
section  of  his  book  (Ax  THE 
SIGN  OF  THE  VAN)  that 
which  gives  it  its  title,  is  oc- 
cupied with  the  migrations  of  The  Papy- 
rus, that  gallant  little  magazine  whose 
existence  seemed  to  be  by  miracle,  and 
whose  various  re-existences  encourage  a 
belief  in  the  resurrection.  Mr.  Mona- 
han's  whimsical  humanity,  his  confiden- 
tial inclusion  of  his  domestic  along  with 
his  literary  fortunes,  make  the  van  seem 
more  like  a  gypsy  van  than  an  ordinary 
"pantechnicon ;"  a  delightfully  happy-go- 
lucky  circus  wagon  in  which  "the  fam- 
ily," including  a  well-populated  nursery, 
jog  along  in  happy  gregariousness,  with 
the  editorial  desk,  the  publishing  office, 
and  the  advertising  department  all  snug- 
ly aboard.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  keep  a 

14 


romantic  eye  for  one's  own  enterprises. 
So  they  renew  their  youth  like  the  eagle 
— or  I  should  rather  say,  like  THE  PHOE- 
NIX, which  is  the  latest  avatar  of  The 
Papyrus — long  life  to  it!  and,  when  its 
turn  comes  (absit  omen!)  many  glorious 
resurrections !  In  this  first  section  of 
"The  Van"  Mr.  Monahan,  with  charm- 
ing open-heartedness,  has  allowed  us  to 
share  with  him  the  romance  of  making  a 
little  magazine  all  by  one's  self,  and  all 
for  one's  self — and  a  few  friends;  a 
magazine  for  really  "gentle*'  readers,  and 
one  that  really  "enjoys"  its  circulation. 
The  fun  of  being  one's  own  contributor, 
able  to  say  what  one — pleases,  because 
one  is  one's  own  editor,  of  being  able 
to  edit  with  the  same  freedom,  because 
one  is  one's  own  publisher;  the  vicissi- 
tudes and  surprises  of  a  publication  all 
one's  own,  including  "that  exquisite  emo- 
tion induced  by  opening  a  letter  with  a 
cheque  in  it,"  the  excitement  of  a  new 
subscriber,  particularly  when  that  new 

15 


subscriber  happens  to  be  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley : 

Here's  a  dollar  from  some  one  in  Lock- 
erbie Street, 

With  the  name  plain  as  print  in  a  hand- 
writing neat 

Yes!  'tis  his,  sure  enough,  and  a  pulse 
of  joy  fleet 

Says  a  "Howdy!"  to  Riley  in  Lockerbie 
Street.  *  *  * 

Just  a  square  bit  of  paper,  but  on  it  a 

name 
That  is  mellow  with  genius  and  golden 

with  fame; 
And    memories    rising    with    antiphon 

sweet, 
Cry   a   hail   to  the   Poet   in   Lockerbie 

Street. 

There  is  no  little  of  the  romance  of 
authorship,  as  it  used  to  be  practised  in 
the  old  days,  about  Mr.  Monahan's  art- 
fully artless  revelations  as  Johnson  or 
Franklin  practised  it,  precariously  in  gar- 
rets, or  distractedly  in  the  bosom  of  one's 
family,  or  as  an  itinerant  vendor  of  one's 

16 


own  wares ;  the  days  before  authors  rode 
in  motor  cars,  or  had  castles,  or  house- 
boats, to  write  in.  Mr.  Monahan's  is  a 
domestic  muse,  and,  in  one  place,  he  hu- 
morously describes  how  he  is  liable  to 
be  called  down  from  his  eyrie  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  because  "the  Two  Young- 
est" have  "started  something,"  and  his 
assistance  is  necessary  "to  loosen  a 
stranglehold."  In  such  human  touches 
his  pages  abound  and  they  make  no  little 
of  his  charm.  He  is  the  soul  of  candor. 
"I  have  just  counted  the  Coop,"  he  says 
quaintly  in  another  place,  "and  they  are 
all  here,  safe  and  sound.'1  "Here"  was 
Somerville,  New  Jersey,  whither  it  had 
seemed  advisable,  in  the  year  1904,  to 
remove  the  Ark  of  the  Papyrus  from  its 
original  home  in  Mount  Vernon,  whither 
it  was  to  return  again  at  a  later  date,  a 
place  haloed  by  Mr.  Monahan  with  un- 
accustomed rainbows.  After  all,  the  only 
places  that  are  genuinely  romantic  are 
the  places  we  have  lived  in  ourselves! 

17 


The  Van  has  moved  on  once  more  since 
these  pages  were  written,  and  the  nest 
of  flame  from  which  springs  THE  PHOE- 
NIX is  South  Norwalk,  Conn. 

Lovers  of  a  kind  of  writing  hard  lo 
find  anywhere  else  at  this  moment  will 
rejoice  that  Mr.  Monahan  achieved,  and 
is  still  achieving  and  pursuing,  his  own 
magazine,  not  only  for  all  the  fun  he 
himself  has  gotten,  and  is  still  to  get, 
out  of  it,  but  because  of  the  body  of 
good  reading  that  he  has  thus  been  able 
to  produce,  which  could  have  been  pro- 
duced in  no  other  way.  For  such  writ- 
ing there  is  unhappily  no  place  any  long- 
er in  the  "big"  magazines,  for  the  most 
part  edited,  as  they  are,  and  perhaps  have 
to  be,  by  the  capitalist  for  the  populace: 
nor  would  a  man  be  likely,  or  even  able, 
to  sit  down  and  write  such  things,  at 
first  hand,  in  a  book.  These  various  con- 
fidences, and  meditations,  and  criticisms, 
are  of  their  nature  "causeries,"  born  of 
moods  and  moments  that  would  have 

18 


been  lost  had  the  medium  not  been  handy 
for  their  being  shared  with  the  fit  audi- 
ence, though  few.  The  purely  literary 
papers  even  would  scarcely  have  been 
half  so  good  had  Mr.  Monahan  sat  him- 
self down  with  the  solemn  intention  of 
writing  on  Renan  or  Byron  for,  say,  the 
"North  American  Review."  Doubtless, 
Mr.  Monahan  could  command  the  mag- 
isterial air  proper  for  such  august  oc- 
casions, for,  while  he  is  often  "very  easy 
in  his  manners,"  his  style  is  full  of  in- 
nate dignity,  and  an  old  school  courtli- 
ness of  address  is  one  of  his  anachronis- 
tic charms ;  yet  his  dignity  is  of  the  spon- 
taneous, natural  kind,  humanly  devoid 
of  "ex  cathedra"  formality.  In  short,  he 
is  a  writer  whose  individuality  needs  its 
"own  particular  air  to  shine  in,"  and  that 
it  has  been  fortunate  enough,  or  sen- 
sible enough,  to  find. 

Another  advantage  that  ensues  to  us 
from  Mr.  Monahan  having  his  own  per- 
sonally conducted  magazine  is  that  he  is 

19 


able,  as  in  this  volume,  to  revive  for  us 
"the  medley,"  one  of  the  most  com- 
panionable forms  taken  by  the  dwellers 
upon  shelves.  It  is  a  form,  for  all  its 
desultory  air,  that  demands  no  little  art 
of  arrangement.  It  comes  not  of  care- 
less heterogeneity,  and  Mr.  Monahan  has 
manipulated  his  variousness  with  great 
skill,  the  first  book  of  "The  Van"  being 
followed  by  three  others  dealing  with 
"Adventures  in  Life,"  "Adventures  in 
Letters,"  "Adventures  o'  the  Spirit:"  a 
sort  of  literary  "Bouillabaisse" — which 
reminds  one  that  the  prose  is  pleasantly 
set  here  and  there  with  sprigs  of  verse, 
usually  after  the  manner  and  sentiment 
of  Mr.  Monahan's  beloved  master, 
Thackeray,  to  whom  he  offers  unneces- 
sary apologies  for  the  spirited  ballad  of 
"The  New  Bouillabaisse,"  which  will, 
doubtless,  keep  alive  the  memory  of  a 
certain  friendly  New  York  restaurant 
(unfriendly  word!  let  us  say  "eating 
house*')  long  after  it  has  passed  into  the 
limbo  of  other  New  York  homes  of 

20 


ancient  cheer.  Present-day  aspects  of 
New  York  life  are  made  matters  of 
historic  record  in  such  refreshingly  out- 
spoken papers  as  "Old  Men  for  Love," 
"Sex  in  the  Playhouse,"  "Babylon,"  and 
"Trial  by  Newspaper,"  the  latter  a  de- 
lightfully "knavish  piece  of  work"  in  the 
way  of  satire.  Mr.  Monahan  never  min- 
ces matters.  He  has  the  courage  alike 
of  his  sympathies  and  his  prejudices. 

Another  blessed  privilege  of  keeping 
a  magazine !  He  bends  the  knee  neither 
to  prohibition  nor  to  the  American  wo- 
man. He  is  as  far  from  being  a  teeto- 
taler as  he  is  from  being  a  suffragette. 
In  a  chapter  of  forcible  common  sense 
entitled  "The  Lions"— the  "two  lions  in 
the  path  of  life"  being  "Drink  and  De- 
sire"—he  has  this  excellent  pronounce- 
ment a  propos  men  of  genius :  "The  world 
has  learned  more  from  their  intemper- 
ance in  drink  and  love  and  other  things 
than  from  the  unshaken  virtue  of  a  mil- 
lion parsons.  *  *  *  Nature  is  never 
less  a  moralist  than  when  mixing  in  her 

21 


alembic  the  materials  of  human  great- 
ness ;"  yet,  with  the  caution  of  another 
of  his  masters,  Horace,  he  concludes : 
"Most  of  us  are  the  better  for  having 
caroused  a  while  there,  (that  is  in  "the 
House  of  Excess,")  and  then,  admonish- 
ed by  the  clock,  paid  our  shot  and  come 
on  our  way."  Among  aphorisms  highly 
unsuitable  for  popular  magazines  are 
these:  "Modesty  is  much  less  native  to 
women  than  we  pretend  to  believe  by  a 
social  convention."  .  .  .  "It  is  asserted 
that  from  time  to  time  a  man  appears  on 
this  earth  who  thinks  only  of  the  One 
Woman,  and  never  knows  or  desires  an- 
other during  his  earthly  pilgrimage." 
But  I  must  not  seem  to  imply  that  such 
are  the  prevailing  ingredients  of  Mr. 
Monahan's  "Bouillabaisse."  They  but 
occasionally  season  it  with  a  robust  rel- 
ish, and  are  but  incidental  to  the  same 
daring  sincerity  of  expression  which  en- 
ables him  to  say  of  Shakesepare:  "In 
another  generation  or  so  Shakespeare 

22 


will  be  as  infrequently  acted  as  the  Greek 
plays."  If  Mr.  Monahan  is  no  "femin- 
ist," his  tenderness  and  reverence  for 
women  are  true  and  deep.  Witness  his 
beautiful  "Household  Psalm."  No  more 
touching  tribute  to  a  wife  was  ever  pen- 
ned, and  how  pertinent  its  closing  word : 

"Think  of  this  now  and  then  during 
the  days  she  may  be  yet  left  to  thee." 

Other  husbands  please  copy !  And  the 
lovely  letter  to  a  child  which  follows  it. 
I  wish  I  could  quote  them  both.  But 
I  trust  that  I  have  at  least  suggested  the 
individual  charm  of  Mr.  Monahan's 
book,  its  ripeness,  its  gusto,  its  sense  of 
comradeship,  its  humor  and  common 
sense  and  all  its  entertaining  variety, 
that  the  reader  will  help  it  to  fulfill  the 
end  for  which  every  good  book  was 
brought  into  the  world — first  to  be 
bought,  then  to  be  read.  It  is  too  good 
a  book  to  be  borrowed.  It  is  emphatical- 
ly a  book  to  be  bought. 

23 


SO  HERE  ENDETH  THIS  LITTLE 
BOOK  OF  APPRECIATION  BY  RICH- 
ARD LE  GALLIENNE,  OTHERWISE 
YCLEPT  WITH  HONORABLE  AD- 
DITION, RICHARD  OF  THE  QUEST. 
DONE  AT  THE  PRINTERY  OF  THE 
PHOENFX  IN  THE  MONTH  OF 
DECEMBER  ANNO  DOMINI 
MDCCCCXIV 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


MITED  CIRCULATION 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 


Le  Gallienne, 
J  Michael  Monahan, 


025 


LIMITED  CIRCULATION 


304430 


i 


